Stumbling in the dark
by DulcetKazoo
Summary: When John's niece moves into 221B Baker Street after a series of questionable events, she is thrust headfirst into the world of deduction and crime .(Set between Sherlock's "resurrection" and the marriage of John, but will go on throughout rest of show)


The streets were swamped with darkness, save for the glare of the streetlamps onto the ground below. I stumbled under their gaze, swerving around the few people who roamed the land at this time; their faces were coal black, and void of character. Anyone would be a threat now Especially to me. I hissed at the throbbing in my side: a gift from the one of the brick walled alleys where I had stopped for a rest. I had swung a few blows, or at least, I had tried. But they did beat me. I was left with worse pain than now, which I suppose is a blessing.

My eyes caught the maroon shop front with greying letters that simply read, 'Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café', and for a moment my body sagged in relief. I had suffered greatly on my journey, and finally I would find rest. I eagerly made my way towards the door. 221 B, Baker street. That was the most recent address I could find for my war-burdened Uncle. My hand clenched. He had to be here; he was the only the family I knew of. A few seconds after my first knock, a woman's voice could be heard, asking whether the door should be opened. A deeper voice returned, seeming half irritated but otherwise intrigued.

"Fine. Off you go!"

"I'm still not your housekeeper! "The woman replied, good-naturedly. Her footsteps were light thuds on the stairwell, which I could tell was wooden because of their hollowness.

The man sounded little like my uncle. Perhaps I had the wrong place? No. The address was scrawled in my notebook. I was certain it was a match. The thuds were getting louder; I would have no time to make my escape. When the door was opened, a small, slight woman beamed up at me. Her eyes seemed to smile, framed by the creases that marked each and every joyous moment in life.

"Have you got a case, poppet? "she asked.

My eyebrows furrowed, and I blinked at her.

"I'm sorry, a case? What do you mean a case? "I shrank back a bit, my fingers picking a little at the threads that hung loose on my jacket.

"A murder case, or something of the sort. My tenant helps solve them. "She said fondly" Now then, what can I do for you?"

"I came – I came to see John. "I muttered, half hoping she hadn't heard me "John Watson. I don't suppose he lives here?"

My cheeks were stained red as her smile grew.

" Oh yes. We know John "Her expression hardened in a way I did not think it could "You aren't a member of the fan club, are you?"

Her suspicious glare almost made me believe I was guilty. Guilty of everything and nothing all at once.

"No. John is my Uncle". This promise seemed to satisfy her, for the smile danced on her lips yet again.

The woman stepped back to admit me. "Your uncle John moved out a while ago. Come in and I'll set you up with a cup of tea"

She ushered me inside. As we walked up the stairs, my injury ached profusely with the movement. I rested my hand on it as an attempt to ease the pain, which was somewhat effective.

"So "She said as we reached the top, "I'm Mrs Hudson".

Mrs Hudson led me through and into a living room. At least, It appeared to be one. The space was a haven of curiosities; trinkets, heirlooms and other oddities were sprawled out, bursting from shelves and upholstery. To one side, an ornate fireplace had been fitted. It had a mirror hung above, and faced two squashy armchairs at angles. And leaning back in one of them, was a man that was certainly not my uncle. His fingertips were together, and his expression was calculated.

"Cass. Do you know where Uncle John is?" I replied, after a moment of thought.

Mrs Hudson did not answer, but nodded to the chair opposite, which I gladly sank into.

"Sherlock "She turned to the man "Sherlock, did you hear? This is Cass. John's Niece"

Sherlock shifted into a more comfortable position, his eyes flitting over to me.  
"Yes I heard. What's wrong with your hip?"

"Huh?"

Sherlock was quick to answer, almost too quick.  
"Your hip. When you sat down you were protecting it with your hand "He stated "You've injured yourself."

Sherlock's cold gaze darted all over me, impossible to track or imitate, like the eyes of an eagle, displaying superior intellect. Meanwhile the sound of Mrs Hudson bustling around with clinking mugs and the kettle could be heard in the background. It came from the room which I presumed was the kitchen.

"You were attacked. "he said finally, his forehead lined with concentration.  
"But what did they take? "Sherlock swivelled his head around to look for inspiration or some kind of idea.

I frowned, fiddling with my hands. How did he know this? I definitely hadn't disclosed the fact that I was beaten. Or the injuries I'd obtained. Before I could give him an answer, the man nodded to himself and blurted out his hypothesis.

"They took your bag: there are crease marks where the strap has been."

"Yes but, how did you know that? "I asked.

"As I said, "Sherlock began again, the corners of his mouth creeping upwards at my sudden interest.

"You use your right shoulder to carry your backpack. And I say backpack because you don't seem obliged to draw attention to yourself with showy handbags. Right handed, I suppose too?"

When I nodded, he smiled slightly.  
"Yup" I inhaled sharply "I was hoping he'd know what to do. Dad lost contact with him about a year ago, and I haven't seen, him for a while. This was the most recent address."

The slow thuds on the carpet made me look over my shoulder. Mrs Hudson held two mugs of tea in her hands, both almost overflowing.I thanked her as she passed one to me. Immediately, the heat of the steam clung to my face, and so I decided to wait until it had cooled down.  
Sherlock stuck an arm out as if to take the other mug, but Mrs Hudson held it out of his reach, and took a long sip.  
I bit my lip to stop myself smiling, but I didn't have to. The dismay on his face quickly morphed into a chuckle.

"But I wanted a cup of tea! "He whined, his shoulders slumping dramatically.  
Mrs Hudson shook her head, the corners of her eyes crinkling with humour.

"Do it yourself," She instructed, as if Sherlock was a mere child," I'm not your housekeeper"

It was as if she was scolding him, but all in good humour of course – you could see it in their eyes, shining and catching the little light in the room. I let out a laugh that I had fought to supress before.

"Cass?"


End file.
